


A King May Be A Tool

by brevitas



Series: King Among Kings [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:06:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras overhears a woman confessing her love to Grantaire and doesn't give him a chance to explain; in the midst of that misunderstanding Abelard requests that they consummate their marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A King May Be A Tool

Combeferre's determination to prove that Grantaire is the one going down to the village and helping people affects neither Courfeyrac nor Enjolras’ opinions; they’re just as stubborn on the far side of the spectrum, with their prince favoring the idea that Grantaire walks down to the village only for a source of alcohol the castle scribes cannot monitor. Enjolras would no doubt have continued believing that if he had not happened to overhear something himself two days later.

He is just leaving the dining hall from breakfast (which, surprisingly, Grantaire _had_ attended, limping into the room only five minutes late and leaning heavily on his aide but present all the same) and is at a juncture between hallways when he hears someone say with utter awe, "I still can't believe he went."

Enjolras pauses with a slight frown, unsure as to why he is but lingering to eavesdrop either way. He snakes out an arm to catch Courfeyrac before he can turn the corner and that in turn stops Combeferre who lifts an eyebrow as he waits by Enjolras' side. Neither of them need to be told to be quiet; Enjolras merely looks at them with narrowed blue eyes and they're content to idle until he waves them on.

"I know," a young woman replies, giggling. "It was actually pretty heroic of him."

The butler who spoke the first time says, "I guess he's just real devoted to those people." It's obvious from the lilt in his voice that he's smiling, and there's a clink of glassware like he's rearranging dishes on a tray. "Honestly I think he's always gonna be."

The woman agrees and adds, "I think it's inspiring that our prince is willin' to sneak out underneath his dad's nose to help us commoners."

Enjolras looks sidelong at Combeferre, who's smiling rather smugly under the shadow of his bangs. He sighs but can’t help a twitching smile.

“Come on, Marie,” the man says and they start walking away, their footsteps drifting down the hall. “We better get to Abelard before he throws a fit.”

Enjolras waits until he can no longer hear them before he turns to Courfeyrac and Combeferre and says in defeat, “Fine. Grantaire is a better man than I figured him for.”

Combeferre smiles and lays a hand on his prince’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should speak with him,” he suggests. “Theoretically you could become friends over this.” He doesn’t need to say that them being friends would be better than the tentative truce they have stretched thinly between them now; they’re married, after all, no matter if the celebration isn’t due for another two months and a marriage based on friendship rather than toleration will be much more bearable.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies thoughtfully. “I think I should. I’ll meet you back in my chambers.”

They separate and Enjolras walks confidently to Grantaire’s room, fully intending on telling him that he knows about his secret adventures into the village and that perhaps they share something in common after all. Yet again he finds himself stayed by voices when he hears someone say desperately, “Grantaire, I love you.” He leans into the corner, able to see only two shadows thrown against the far wall from this angle.

Grantaire sighs. “Chastain,” he starts, and he sounds almost disappointed. “I don’t know what to—“

She interrupts him and their shadows become one on the wall. Enjolras stiffens but does not reveal his presence, listening as Chastain breathlessly says, “We don’t need to tell Prince Enjolras—he does not care about you, Grantaire, and I truly do.”

He turns away so he doesn’t have to listen to more and storms to his room, forgetting to put his obedient, submissive mask into place and looking like the spirited man he truly is for the first time since he had arrived here. The maids scatter in front of him, whispering as they hurry out of his way.

Courfeyrac catches him right outside his quarters, worriedly asking, “Enjolras, is everything all right?”

“No,” Enjolras snaps as he breezes past. “Grantaire is a pig.”

Courfeyrac frowns after him but he knows Combeferre and Feuilly are both in the room and rather than follow decides to go speak to Grantaire—he might be able to persuade the prince to tell him what happened. He walks to his room and turns the corner just in time to see Grantaire hugging a young woman with lovely brunette hair, stroking the locks back from her forehead.

Grantaire sees Courfeyrac and asks over her head, “Do you need something?”

Courfeyrac is looking at him in open-mouthed indignation. “You do realize you’re embracing a strange woman, right? That you two are alone right outside your chambers and that this looks like what I’m quite sure it is.”

“Wait,” Grantaire says hurriedly, “It’s not like that at all.” He peels Chastain’s clinging hands off his tunic and takes a few steps after Courfeyrac, who’s backing down the stairs.

“Sure,” he says disbelievingly with a shake of his head. “Jesus, no wonder Enjolras was so mad.” He disappears before providing any explanation for that remark and Grantaire curses under his breath as his footsteps hurry away.

That dinner Enjolras doesn’t show; Combeferre comes in his stead and passes on an apology. Abelard gracelessly accepts it and tells Combeferre that he recommends Enjolras attend the next meal as he has important news to share. Grantaire and his father do not talk throughout the courses, and they part in silence.

Grantaire sleeps uneasily and sends Jehan to try to speak in Enjolras in the middle of the night; predictably he’s turned away and returns to Grantaire to tell him that Enjolras said not to try again. Grantaire falls back on liquor to ease his troubles and eventually passes out just as the sun lifts on the horizon.

Jehan wakes him not an hour later, apologetically smiling as Grantaire swats at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, “But your father made it very clear he expects you to come.” He helps Grantaire dress as the man is practically as intoxicated as he was when he fell asleep, and is glad the prince has a limp so he has an excuse to lean so heavily on the manservant. Jehan deposits him in his seat and coaxes him to get a full plate, if only so Abelard will have nothing to complain of.

Enjolras walks in like a cold breeze and seats opposite Grantaire, Courfeyrac standing behind him. With Abelard expected they can’t have their servants looking equal but Grantaire is glad Courfeyrac’s here anyway; he tries to catch his eye and grows frustrated as Cour continues ignoring him.

He’s on the cusp of demanding Enjolras explain to him what happened that upset him so when the doors open to emit Abelard. Both princes rise, executing a bow before resuming their seats and Abelard takes his usual chair at the head of the table.

“Boys,” he greets, seeming kindly enough this morning. “I’m glad both of you decided to attend.”

“Of course, Father,” Grantaire says evenly, draining his mug of water in the hopes of dousing his drunkenness. Abelard notices and frowns under his great bushy mustache but makes no comment of it.

“I have only one thing to say,” he begins. “I would like you two to consummate your marriage.”

Grantaire chokes on his water and Enjolras looks at him across the table, the fury in his eyes so scalding Grantaire is somewhat surprised he doesn’t catch afire. Ignorant to the princes’ spat Abelard continues. “My advisers recommend it happen tonight, to ease the minds of the people. They want their future secured and whatnot.” He flippantly waves a hand and cuts into his sausage, only glances up when he notices neither have replied.

It falls to Grantaire to take up the slack and he says quickly, “Yes, Father. It will be done.”

Abelard is satisfied with that and returns to his meal and Enjolras frowns and looks down at his plate; Grantaire desperately tries to signal to him that he didn’t mean anything by what he said to his dad, he was just trying to get him to get off their back, but neither Courfeyrac nor Enjolras will look him in the eye.

After breakfast Grantaire disappears; Abelard isn’t overly concerned as Bahorel is also lacking, and he assures everyone his son is probably just doing some whoring before his big night. The staff laughs with their king about it but when he leaves the gossip starts, and news of his disappearance spreads throughout the castle by lunch.

Enjolras holes himself up in his room and permits no one to come in; he declines lunch and Abelard tells the cooks that he’s fairly certain he’s nervous too. The king doesn’t seem to care much either way and eats alone without complaint.

Surely enough both princes come to dinner and again sit opposite each other. Abelard is in a good mood that day and entertains them with stories from his youth, which both pretend to find fascinating. As supper is winding down he stands and wishes them good luck, slapping Grantaire on the back as he passes. “You’ll do fine, son,” he tells him, whistling as he departs.

Enjolras stands and looks down at his feet, something he’s noticed Grantaire seems to hate. “My liege,” he says humbly. “Your quarters will suffice, yes?”

Grantaire frowns at him and rises more slowly, favoring his leg still. “I suppose,” he says, casting a glance at the maids who are coming in to the collect the dishes. He gestures for Enjolras to follow him and the other prince turns to dismiss Courfeyrac, prompting Grantaire to do the same with Jehan.

They walk alone to Grantaire’s rooms and although Grantaire is itching to assure Enjolras that he isn’t going to force him into this he says nothing—he can’t risk someone overhearing him and reporting it to his father. Apparently Enjolras misinterprets his silence as acceptance for he idles by the bed while Grantaire closes the door and before the drunkard can even try to explain Enjolras beats him to the punch.

“Here, milord,” Enjolras says demurely, hiking up his robes. “At your ready.”

Grantaire frowns at him as Enjolras leans over and splays his hands on the mattress, baring his ass to the other prince. From this angle his head is bowed and his thick golden hair covers his expression but Grantaire does not need to see it to imagine it.

“Enjolras,” he says, and when the man stiffens he corrects himself. “ _Prince_ Enjolras. We do not need to do this—clearly you’d rather not.”

Enjolras looks over his shoulder at him, his lovely mouth set into an even line. He says nothing, so Grantaire goes on. “I’m only doing this now as my father requested it of us but trust me, I have no complaints about lying to him. We need not be a couple in anything but the political sense if that is what you’d prefer.”

Enjolras rises, his gown slipping over his thighs. He considers Grantaire warily and in an effort to ease his worries Grantaire says jokingly, “Trust me, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with people who do not desire me.”

“That must narrow your potential suitors considerably,” Enjolras replies loftily and Grantaire is surprised enough that, rather than take offense, he laughs.

“I do not know what I have done to upset you to this degree but I can promise that I expect nothing of you. I will report to King Abelard in the morning that we have consummated our marriage and it was a lovely night indeed.”

He begins taking pillows from his bed and throwing them into one corner, using the abundance of pillows meant to contribute to the design of the room to craft a makeshift mattress. “I’ll sleep here,” he says, shedding his royal robes without much thought. He wears very little underneath, only braies that stop mid-thigh, and Enjolras watches him as he clambers gracelessly atop the mound of pillows. “You take the bed.”

“This is your room,” Enjolras feels obliged to point out. He’s off-kilter from Grantaire’s generosity and unsure of how to proceed. “You should take the bed.”

Grantaire snorts, flopping onto his back. “I sleep in it every other night,” he says. “Take it. Maybe it will help persuade you to tell me what’s bothering you.”

He waits a heartbeat for a response but Enjolras merely strips to his braies and climbs under the blankets, drawing them to his chin. He’s staring at the ceiling and Grantaire figures he isn’t going to talk at all so he offers pleasantly enough, “Good night, Prince Enjolras.”

“Who is Chastain?” He asks and Grantaire frowns.

“A countess in our lands. She is unfortunately rather fond of me. I’m assuming you’re asking because of what your aide saw?” When Enjolras offers no answer Grantaire sighs. “Look, I wasn’t doing anything with her. I’d just broke her heart as she was really rather hopeful that she’d be able to be my mistress and I was comforting her because I felt bad. It was nothing more than that, I swear.”

“She wanted to have an affair with you?” Enjolras asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire answers with a shrug. “My dad’s mistresses always get treated really nicely so many of the women in my generation would like to be mine.”

Enjolras rolls to his side and looks at Grantaire intently. “Why did you turn her down?” He asks seriously.

Grantaire sits up, lifting an eyebrow. “Because I’m married?” He asks incredulously.

“We don’t love one another,” Enjolras remarks. “We barely even know each other. I simply cannot understand why you would turn her down but I also can’t seem to come up with a good reason as to why you would be lying to me now.”

Grantaire, growing frustrated, says shortly, “I have never and will never do anything with a person outside of our marriage, whether it is for heirs or love. I would not do that to you and I don’t care if that means nothing to you because it means something to me.”

He does not say that if Enjolras hurts him Grantaire will return the favor—he doesn’t think he needs to. Eventually he lays back down and Enjolras says quietly, “Good night, Prince Grantaire.”

“Just call me Grantaire,” he grumbles, rolling onto his stomach. “I don’t need to be reminded all the time of what I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> hey peeps it's been a long time! sorry about the hiatus things have been crazy and I also finally got caught up with Hannibal? so really my bad! :)
> 
> requested by anonymous, californiajones, anonymous and anonymous  
> p.s. the person who requested fisticuffs? not in this chapter but don't worry they're coming ;)
> 
> title comes from this quote: "A king may be a tool, a thing of straw; but if he serves to frighten our enemies, and secure our property, it is well enough: a scarecrow is a thing of straw, but it protects the corn," which I find utterly fascinating, and is by Alexander Pope for those curious
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest! :)


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